


Obedience

by et_cetera55



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/pseuds/et_cetera55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to <a href="http://cynic-fic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://cynic-fic.livejournal.com/"><b>cynic_fic</b></a>’s fantastic <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2702294#t2702294">prompt</a> over at <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/"><b>sherlockbbc_fic</b></a>:  <i>Can we get some down and dirty Mycroft/Lestrade sex? I don't care who tops. I don't care what kinks you kinky kids include. I just want porn.</i>  How was I supposed to resist that? ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obedience

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the _amazing_ [](http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/profile)[**warriorbot**](http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/) (thank you so much!) - any mistakes you find are the result of my last minute panic!

 

Even though Lestrade has seen the familiar black car trailing him home, the sight of Mycroft, in his suit _sans_ jacket and tie, sitting at his kitchen table, still makes his pulse start to race, his trousers tighten.

“You’re late,” Mycroft purrs dangerously, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade wishes he could take the credit for this act of resistance but they both know that would be a lie.

“Mrs Jenkins stopped me in the hallway – apparently she has found her cat.”

Mycroft leans back in his chair, his fingers laced together, resting on his chest. “Tiddles was never _lost_ ,” he croons. “She was merely experiencing the company of most of the toms in the neighbourhood. In fact, if I’m not much mistaken Mrs Jenkins will have a few additions to her little family in nine weeks or so.” He pauses briefly, “But enough.” He sits forward in the chair once more, steepling his fingers on the table. “Strip.”

The command sends a thrill of pleasure pulsing through Lestrade and he is helpless in the face of it – he can do nothing but obey. Hands trembling, he drops his jacket to the floor and starts fumbling with his shirt buttons, all the while oh _so_ aware of Mycroft’s penetrating gaze boring into him.

This is a game that has been played out many times and Lestrade still doesn’t quite understand why he obeys, why he submits to the whims of the man in front of him. But he does. Even when those whims bring him to the edge of orgasm and then leave him hanging. Even when he is then ordered not to bring himself off later. He _always_ obeys.

He is undoing his belt now, dropping his trousers, trying to stifle a soft moan as his fingers rub over his erection through the soft cotton of his boxers. But Mycroft knows. Mycroft always knows.

“Enough. Bedroom.”

Biting his lip, mostly in anticipation but with a frisson of fear underlacing it, he drops his boxers to the floor and steps out of them, walking towards the bedroom. He can’t look round – the unwritten, unspoken rules of this game ban him from doing anything he is not explicitly told to – but he listens for the sound of Mycroft padding along behind him.

“On the bed. On your back I think today.” Mycroft sounds speculative, like he is making this up as he goes along, but Lestrade suspects the man always knows _exactly_ what he wants.

Lestrade does as he is told, making the movements slow and deliberate, spreading his legs wide in silent invitation. He looks over to where Mycroft is standing by the doorframe, still apparently unmoved, his hands clasped behind his back, his face an unreadable mask.

“Arms above your head.”

The silky tones go straight to Lestrade’s groin, his cock twitching. He slowly raises his arms, wondering what Mycroft has in mind this time.

“Perfect.”

Mycroft slowly brings his hands in front of him and Lestrade sees what he has been concealing: a pair of handcuffs. _Lestrade’s_ handcuffs. How the hell did he get those? The man slowly walks up to the bed, giving Lestrade time to object, even though they both know he won’t.

Lestrade can feel his pulse quicken further as the handcuffs sneck around his wrists and when from somewhere (god knows where) Mycroft produces the flex of his kettle and proceeds to tie the handcuffs swiftly and efficiently to the bedhead, Lestrade’s back arches off the bed involuntarily.

“Now, now. A little patience, please,” Mycroft admonishes as he steps back from the bed, presumably to admire his handiwork. Lestrade shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his breathing, willing his body to unwind slightly, _trying_ to have patience.

When he opens them again Mycroft does not appear to have moved… except now he has something else in his hands… something that sends shivers tingling through Lestrade’s whole body…

Mycroft is turning a knife (and yes, that is one of Lestrade’s too) over and over in his palm, the blade glinting in the light.

“I thought something new today might be… _pleasurable_ …”

Lestrade barely hears him. The rational part of him is screaming that he is tied up and laid out for a man who displays a significant number of sociopathic tendencies who now _has a knife_ but the rest of him can think of nothing but how that blade might feel when it touches him, _where_ it might touch him, _what_ Mycroft is going to do with it…

Mycroft’s gaze searches Lestrade’s face briefly, looking for something. Presumably he finds it as his lips curve into a small smile. Lestrade tries not to squirm as the man’s gaze drops lower, raking over his naked body, scrutinising him. He steps back up to the bed.

“Close your eyes.” It is both a command and a promise that Lestrade can barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Shutting his eyes he gives himself up entirely to the man standing over him.

There is nothing. Nothing at all. Hours seem to pass. And then finally, _finally_ Lestrade feels the flat of the blade, cold against his skin, run slowly down the inside of his wrist, down his upstretched forearm. His muscles tighten instinctively, the tendons in his arm flexing against their taut position as the knife is dragged lower, leaving his skin tingling in its wake. Lestrade’s breath hitches as it moves across his armpit – the tickling sensation not fully distracting him from the sensation of being completely at the mercy of the man standing above him, the very real danger he is in right now.

As the blade moves up his neck to run across his throat, just under his jaw line, Lestrade tries in vain not to think about the first aid training that taught him in just how few seconds a man will bleed out if his carotid is severed. Given how fast his heart is now racing, Lestrade wouldn’t even have that long, everything would be over before he even knew about it. He swallows involuntarily, his Adam’s apple pressing into the knife. He knows a rational man would be scared for his life, would be trying to escape – Lestrade just craves more.

The knife moves across and down to trace the line of his collar bone, smoothly moving outwards to his side, starting to trace the outline of his ribs. Mycroft must be leaning over him to reach – Lestrade can smell him, smell the familiar cologne that he has never smelt on anyone else, only this man. He can feel Mycroft’s breath fanning over his bare chest, not as ragged as his own breathing is now, but not as calm and controlled as usual.

So Lestrade is not the only one who is excited by this. And _god_ if that thought doesn’t make his cock throb so much it nearly hurts.

The blade is now making its way slowly down his side and _still_ it is the flat of it pressed against him. Lestrade finds himself desperate for the blade to turn so it scores into him, desperate for the sweet sharp relief of pain. He even considers biting his lip to relieve the tension thrumming through his taut body… but he knows he can’t: any deviation from Mycroft’s instructions and he knows the man will leave him instantly, hanging like this. He grits his teeth tight against the temptation, his breaths now coming short and shallow, his chest heaving with the panting.

The knife reaches his hip, and starts to move across him… across that sensitive line where his leg meets his torso… until it stops, nestled between his inner thigh and his balls. Lestrade no longer feels the need to move, he no longer wants to _breathe_. Every muscle has tensed, every cell aware of the cruel steel touching that oh so delicate skin. Still the knife doesn’t move. Lestrade can feel his muscles start to waver, he knows they can’t hold this much tension for much longer – soon they will start to tremble, soon he may feel that sharp edge…

Slowly, oh so slowly, the blade starts to move – lower at first but then Lestrade realises it is following the curve of his balls. It dips under them, for a brief moment bearing their weight, before it moves once more, moves around and up, to nestle in that same, intimate area on the opposite side.

Lestrade waits for it to move on.

And waits.

And waits.

Finally it starts its course back up, following back along that strip between thigh and stomach and Lestrade gasps a breath. His whole body finally gives in and starts to tremble, muscles quivering out of his control, his leaking cock now painfully hard.

“Open your eyes.”

The growled command comes as a surprise after such a long silence. Lestrade obeys and sees Mycroft, standing by his hip, the knife still flat against his skin. But as he watches, Mycroft slowly rotates the blade until the cutting edge is now resting on his skin, too lightly to cut him. Yet. Lestrade grits his teeth once more, every tendon tightening as he fights the urge to press up into the sharpness, to feel the longed-for pain.

He lifts his gaze to Mycroft’s face.

Christ.

Mycroft’s normally pale cheeks are flushed, his lips bright red and his eyes… God his _eyes_ \- his pupils are blown wide, his eyes black with lust, his gaze so _intense_. Lestrade has never seen the man so… _undone_ …

Mycroft gives a slight smile.

“I’m just trying to decide,” he starts – and Lestrade can hear his voice is slightly huskier than usual, slightly less tightly controlled – “whether I should press a little _harder_ …” The knife is pressed down a fraction more firmly - but still _not enough_ \- as Mycroft continues, “And mark you as my own.”

That shouldn’t be hot. That really shouldn’t be hot but _fuck_ Lestrade wants it _so badly_. He can’t help the slight whimper that escapes him.

Mycroft’s smile widens just a little in approval. Never changing the pressure on the blade Mycroft uses his free hand to start rolling up his shirt sleeve. If it was excruciatingly difficult before, now it takes every ounce of willpower Lestrade has to stop his hips from pushing up into the knife.

Mycroft changes his position slightly… leans forwards… tenses his arm…

And then stands back upright, lifting the knife clear away, purring, “Maybe next time…”

Lestrade’s hips buck upwards, trying to follow the knife, but it is no good. Mycroft merely smiles back at him, clearly delighted with the trembling wreck lying beneath him.

“I think it’s time you shut your eyes again.”

Lestrade does so, every inch of him praying that the knife will touch his skin again, that Mycroft won’t leave him like this. He tenses, tries to quieten his panting, still his muscles so he can listen for any sign that relief might be coming… but there is nothing…

Nothing at all…

Only him…

_Fuck!_ He almost cries out when something touches him. But it isn’t the cool steel of the knife, but soft warm fingers that are rubbing over his cock, stroking down him as he pushes back up to meet them. His thrusts quicken, and the hand tightens around him, fingers touching him in _just_ the right places, just _there_ … Fuck he is so close…

“Please! _Please!_ ” he can hear himself begging but he doesn’t care anymore. He is so close… _so close_ …

“Come for me.”

With those three words he is undone, pleasure rocking through him as a final thrust pushes him over the edge into that sweet oblivion…

 

 

As his breathing starts to settle something cold, small – a key – is pressed into one of his palms and a voice low and soft, whispers next to his ear, “Count slowly to ten before opening your eyes.”

As Lestrade reaches ‘ten’ he hears the front door softly sneck shut.

 


End file.
